The Map of Time (17 page)

Dusk had begun to submerge the world in a coppery light that lent an air of distinction to everything, including Wells who, sitting quietly in his kitchen, looked like a sculpture of himself made out of flour. He shook his head, banishing the doubts stirred up by the harsh review in the Speaker, and picked up the envelope that had appeared in his postbox that afternoon. He hoped it was not a letter from yet another newspaper asking him to predict the future. Ever since The Time Machine had been published, the press had held him up as an official oracle and kept encouraging him to display his supposed powers of divination in their pages.

But when he tore the envelope open he discovered he was not being asked to predict anything. Instead, he found himself holding a publicity leaflet from Murray’s Time Travel, together with a card in which Gilliam Murray invited him to take part in the third expedition to the year 2000. Wells clenched his teeth to stop himself from unleashing a stream of oaths, scrunched up the leaflet, and hurled it across the room, as he had the magazine moments before.

The ball of paper flew precariously through the air until it hit the face of a young man who should not have been there. Wells stared with alarm at the intruder who had just walked into his kitchen. He was a well-dressed young man, now rubbing his cheek where the ball of paper had made a direct hit, and shaking his head with a sigh, as though chastising a mischievous child.

Just behind him was a second man, whose features so resembled those of the first they must be related. The author studied the man nearest to him, unable to decide whether he ought to apologize for having hit him with the ball of paper or ask what the devil he was doing in his kitchen. But he had no time to do either, for the man responded first.

“Mr. Wells, I presume,” he said, raising his arm and pointing a gun at him.

14

A young man with a bird like face.

This was what Andrew thought when he saw the author of The Time Machine, the book that had transformed all England while he was wandering like a ghost amid the trees in Hyde Park. Finding the front door locked, instead of knocking, Charles had led him silently round the back of the house. After crossing a small, rather overgrown garden, they had burst into the small, narrow kitchen whose cramped space the two of them seemed to fill completely.

“Who are you and what are you doing in my house?” the author demanded, remaining seated at the table, perhaps because in that way less of his body would be exposed to the pistol aimed at him, which was also undoubtedly the reason why he had asked the question in such an incongruously polite manner.

Without lowering the gun, Charles turned to his cousin and nodded. It was Andrew’s turn to take part in the performance.

He suppressed a sigh of displeasure. He deemed it unnecessary to have burst into the author’s house at gunpoint, and he regretted not having given some thought during the journey to what they would do once they reached the house, instead of leaving everything up to his cousin, whose impetuosity had put them in a very awkward situation. But there was no turning back now, and so Andrew approached Wells, determined to improvise. He had no idea how to do so, only that he must mimic his cousin’s severe, determined manner. He reached into his jacket pocket for the cutting, and, with the abrupt gesture appropriate to the situation, placed it on the table between the author’s hands.

“I want you to stop this from happening,” he said, trying his best to sound commanding.

Wells stared blankly at the cutting, then contemplated the two intruders, his eyes moving from one to the other like a pendulum, and finally consented to read it. As he did so, his face remained impassive.

“I regret to tell you that this tragic event has already occurred, and as such belongs to the past. And as you are fully aware, the past is unchangeable,” he concluded disdainfully, returning the cutting to Andrew.

Andrew paused for a moment then, a little flustered, took the yellowing piece of paper and put it back in his pocket. Visibly uncomfortable at being forced into such close proximity by the narrowness of the kitchen, which did not seem big enough to squeeze in another person, the three men simply gawked at one another, like actors who have suddenly forgotten their lines. However, they were wrong: there was room for another slim person, and even for one of those newfangled bicycles that were all the rage, with their aluminium spokes, tubular frames, and modern pneumatic tires, which made them much lighter.

“You’re wrong,” said Charles, suddenly brightening up.

“The past isn’t unalterable, not if we have a machine capable of traveling in time.” Wells gazed at him with a mixture of pity and weariness.

“I see,” he murmured, as though it had suddenly dawned on him with dreary disappointment what this business was all about. “But you’re mistaken if you imagine I have one at my disposal. I’m only a writer, gentlemen.” He shrugged, apologetically.

“I have no time machine. I simply made one up.” “I don’t believe you,” replied Charles.

“It’s the truth,” sighed Wells.

Charles tried to catch Andrew’s eye, as though his cousin would know what to do next in their madcap adventure. But they had come to a dead end. Andrew was about to tell him to lower the gun, when a young woman walked into the kitchen wheeling a bicycle. She was a slim, small, amazingly beautiful creature, who looked as though she had been delicately wrought by a god tired of churning out inferior specimens. But what really grabbed Andrew’s attention was the contraption she had with her, one of those so-called bicycles that were replacing horses because they allowed people to ride round peacefully on country roads without exerting themselves too much. Charles, on the other hand, did not let himself be distracted by the thing, and, having instantly identified the girl as Wells’s wife, he swiftly grabbed her arm and placed the barrel of the gun against her temple. Andrew was amazed at his speed and agility, as though he had spent his whole life making this kind of movement.

“I’ll give you one more chance,” Charles said to the author, who had suddenly turned pale.

The exchange that followed was as inconsequential as it was idiotic, but I will reproduce it word for word, despite it being scarcely worth mentioning, simply because I am not trying to make any one episode in this story stand out: “Jane,” said Wells, in a faint, almost inaudible voice.

“Bertie,” replied Jane, alarmed.

“Charles … ,” Andrew began.

“Andrew,” Charles interrupted him.

Then there was silence. The afternoon light threw their shadows into relief. The curtain at the window billowed slightly.

Out in the garden, the branches of the tree that rose from the ground like a crooked pikestaff rustled eerily as they shook in the breeze. A group of pale shadows nodding their heads, embarrassed by the clumsy melodrama of the scene, as if this were a novel by Henry James (who, incidentally, will also make an appearance in this story).

“Very well, gentlemen,” declared Wells at last in a good-natured voice, rising from his chair. “I think we can solve this in a civilized way without anyone getting hurt.” Andrew looked beseechingly at his cousin.

“It’s up to you, Bertie.” Charles gave a sardonic smile.

“Let go of her, and I’ll show you my time machine.” Andrew stared at the author in amazement. Were Gilliam Murray’s suspicions true then? Did Wells really have a time machine? Obviously pleased, Charles released Jane, who crossed the very short distance separating her from her beloved Bertie and threw her arms around him.

“Don’t worry, Jane,” the author calmed her. “Everything will be all right.” “Well, then,” said Charles, impatiently.

Wells gently extricated himself from Jane’s embrace and contemplated Charles with visible distaste.

“Follow me to the attic.” Forming a sort of funeral procession with Wells leading the way, they climbed a creaking staircase that seemed as though it might give way beneath their feet at any moment. The attic had been built in the roof space above the second floor and had an unpleasantly claustrophobic feel to it due to the low sloping ceiling and the extravagant collection of assorted bric-a-brac.

Over in a corner under the window, which acted as an air vent and through which the last rays of sunlight were filtering, stood the strange contraption. Judging from his cousin’s awed expression and the way he practically bowed down before it, Andrew assumed this must be the time machine. He approached the object, examining it with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.

At first sight, the machine capable of breaking down the barriers confining man to the present looked like some sort of sophisticated sleigh. However, the rectangular wooden pedestal to which it was fixed suggested it was not designed to travel through space, but would need to be dragged along: something that would be difficult owing to its size. The apparatus was surrounded by a waist-high brass rail, a flimsy barrier that had to be stepped over to gain access to the sturdy seat in the middle.

The seat vaguely resembled a barber’s chair, to which had been attached two exquisitely carved wooden arms, and was upholstered in rather lurid red velvet. In front of it, supported by two elegant bars also made of brass, was a medium-sized dial, the control panel with three monitors showing the day, the month, and the year. A delicate glass lever protruded from a wheel to the right of the dial. The machine seemed to have no other handles, and Andrew deduced that the whole thing worked by pulling on this single lever. Behind the seat was a complicated mechanism resembling distilling mechanism. This had a shaft sticking out of it which supported a huge round disc that was covered in strange symbols and looked as if it might spin round. Apparently designed to protect the machine, it was bigger than a Spartan shield and was undoubtedly the most spectacular thing about the whole contraption. Finally, a little plaque screwed to the control panel read: “Made by H. G. Wells.” “Are you an inventor, too?” Andrew asked, taken aback.

“Of course not; don’t be absurd,” replied Wells, pretending to be annoyed. “As I already told you, I’m only a writer.” “Well, if you didn’t build it, where did you get it from?” Wells sighed, as though annoyed at having to explain himself to these strangers. Charles pressed the revolver into Jane’s temple again, even harder this time: “My cousin asked you a question, Mr. Wells.” The author shot him a black look, then gave another sigh.

“Soon after my novel was published,” he said, realizing he had no choice but to comply with the intruders, “I received a letter from a scientist who told me that for years he had been secretly working on a time machine very similar to the one I described in my book. He said it was almost finished, and he wanted to show it to somebody, but he didn’t know whom. He considered, not without good reason, that it was a dangerous invention, capable of arousing an unhealthy interest in people.

My novel had convinced him I was the right one to confide in.

We met a couple of times, with the aim of getting to know one another, of finding out whether we could really trust each other, and we instantly realized we could, not least because we had very similar ideas about the many inherent dangers of time travel. He built the machine here in this very attic. And the little plaque was his affectionate way of showing his gratitude for my collaboration. I don’t know if you remember my book, but this amazing machine is nothing like the hulking great thing illustrated on the cover. It doesn’t work in the same way, either, of course, but don’t ask me how it does, because I’m not a man of science. When the time came to try it out, we decided he should have the honor; I would oversee the operation from the present. As we had no way of knowing whether the machine would withstand more than one journey, we decided to travel far into the past, but to a time that was peaceful. We chose a period prior to the Roman invasion, when this area was inhabited by witches and druids, a period which should not have entailed much danger, unless the druids wanted to sacrifice us to some deity. My friend boarded the machine, set it to the agreed date, and pulled on the lever. I watched him disappear before my very eyes. Two hours later, the machine came back without him. It was perfectly intact, although there were a few worrying fresh bloodstains on the seat. I haven’t seen my friend since.” There was a deathly silence.

Finally, Charles lowered his pistol for a moment and asked: “Have you tried it?” “Yes,” confessed Wells, a little shamefaced. “But only a few brief exploratory journeys into the past, no more than four or five years. And I was careful to change nothing, because I was afraid of the consequences that might have on the fabric of time.

I didn’t have the courage to venture into the future. I don’t know.

I don’t share the same spirit of adventure as the inventor in my novel. This is all too much for me. In fact, I was thinking of destroying the thing.” “Destroying it?” Charles exclaimed in horror. “But why?” Wells shrugged, giving them to understand he was not quite sure of the answer to that question.

“I don’t know what became of my friend,” he replied. “Perhaps there is a guardian of time, who fires indiscriminately at anyone trying to change events in the past to their own advantage. In any case, I don’t know what to do with his extraordinary legacy.” He frowned at the machine, as though contemplating a cross he had to bear every time he went for a walk. “I dare not tell anyone about it, because I cannot even begin to imagine how it would change the world, for better or for worse. Have you ever wondered what makes men act responsibly? I’ll tell you; they only have one go at things. If we had machines that allowed us to correct all our mistakes, even the most foolish ones, we would live in a world of irresponsible people. Given its potential, all I can really do is use it for my own rather futile purposes. But what if one day I yield to temptation and decide to use it for my own personal gain, for example, to change something in my past, or to travel into the future in order to steal some incredible invention with which I could improve my present circumstances? I would be betraying my friend’s dream …” He gave a despondent sigh. “As you can see, this amazing machine has become a burden to me.” With these words, he looked Andrew closely up and down with an intimidating air, as though sizing him up for an imaginary coffin.

“However, you wish to use it to save a life,” he almost whispered. “What nobler cause could there be than that? If I let you do it and you succeed, it will justify the machine’s existence.” “Quite so, what nobler cause could there be than to save a life?” Charles reaffirmed hurriedly, seeing that Wells’s unexpected consent had apparently left his cousin speechless. “And I assure you Andrew will succeed,” he said, going over to his cousin and clapping him heartily on the shoulder. “My cousin will kill the Ripper and save Marie Kelly.” Wells paused. He glanced at his wife, seeking her approval.

“Oh, Bertie, you must help him,” declared Jane, full of excitement, “it’s so romantic.” Wells looked again at Andrew, trying to conceal the flash of envy his wife’s remark had triggered in him. But deep down he knew Jane had used the right adjective to describe what the young man intended to do. There was no place in his ordered life for love like that, the sort that caused tragedies or started wars requiring the construction of giant wooden horses: love that could easily end in death. No, he would never know what that kind of love was. He would never know what it meant to lose control, to be consumed, to give in to his instincts. And yet, despite his inability to abandon himself to these passions, as ardent as they were destructive, despite his pragmatic, cautious nature, which only allowed him to pursue harmless amorous liaisons that could not possibly degenerate into unhealthy obsessions, Jane loved him.

All of a sudden, this seemed like an inexplicable miracle, a miracle for which he ought to be thankful.

“All right,” he declared, suddenly in good spirits. “Let’s do it.